


Friendsgiving

by aac7



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dorks in Love, F/M, Thanksgiving Dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26590663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aac7/pseuds/aac7
Summary: Claude and Byleth love their friends.But when Thanksgiving lands on the weekend of their anniversary, Claude thinks that one little lie won't hurt. He just wants to spend a romantic weekend with his love.What could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 43





	1. Thursday Afternoon Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I was supposed to post this on (canadian) Thanksgiving, but I loved it too much and didn't want to wait. 
> 
> Some much needed joy on a Monday because school is ew.

Byleth loved Thursdays. They were her one lecture-free day of the week, where her work day simply consisted of drinking a steaming, hand-roasted cup of coffee as she sat in her office responding to emails and meeting with students during her office hours. After a quick faculty meeting before lunch, she was free to go home.

No one was home in the afternoons. It was near blissful to hear nothing but the quiet hum of the air conditioning kicking in when she walked through the front door. There were no eager students presenting her drafts of their thesis, no nosy professors critiquing her lessons. Just sweet silence as she kicked her heels off, the cool marble against the soles of her feet offering a different kind of bliss as she hung her coat and purse in the closet. 

Byleth’s next destination would be the kitchen, where her first move was to pop the cork off the bottle of last night’s wine, pouring a larger than average amount into her glass. 

She’d then move upstairs and into the master bathroom, setting her glass of wine down on the counter and turning on the faucet of the bath. After the remodeling they’d done last month, the bathroom was her favourite place in the house. She loved it all, from the new ceramic floor tiles coloured a light grey, to the new frameless, glass panelled shower. 

Her favourite thing had been the large, built in bathtub. It’d been the one thing she picked, after all. The engulfing depth, the pressure of the jets, it was  _ perfect.  _ As the steam began to rise, she poured the bath salts, some bubbles and added some pleasant lavender scented essential oil.

She lit a few candles next. She didn’t really need them, the afternoon sun was still bright enough to softly bounce off the light tiles of their bathroom, but she liked the warm glow they provided. 

The only thing left to do now was strip out of her work clothes. She did so with great care — it was one of her favourite sets — hanging up her blazer and pants to be cleaned and carefully folding her shirt before tossing her undergarments in the laundry basket. With a roll of her eyes she also picked up a stray sock that seemed to  _ just  _ miss the basket last night, and that she had also passed by just this morning. 

“Unbelievable,” she muttered with a shake of her head as she stalked back into the bathroom, gathering her hair into a bun. She grabbed the stem of her wine glass and cradled it to her chest as she lowered herself into the warm water of the tub. The second her back hits the bath, her body instantly begins to relax, the tensions from her work week already beginning to drift away in a heavenly haze of lavender scented steam and bubbles. It was just Byleth, her wine, and  _ quiet. _

Goddess, she  _ loved _ Thursday afternoons. 

The sound of the front door being thrown open jolts her out of her peaceful haze, and she nearly spills her wine when she shoots upright, her body alert at the thought of an intruder. Did she not lock the door?

“By? Byleth?”

Byleth releases a relieved sigh and sinks down further into the tub. “Upstairs,” she calls back, hearing his heavy footsteps quickly ascend the steps, accompanied by the patter of small paws against the floor. 

It seemed that everyone was home early today.

Claude appears in the doorway of their bathroom, a lopsided smile on his face as he begins loosening the knot of his tie. “You’re home early,” she observes as he steps into the room. He usually didn’t get off work until 5, and that was on a good day. “Ah, ah, ah,” she tuts, raising the hand holding her glass and pointing at him. “No shoes in the house,” she reminds him. 

He looks down as if surprised to see the black, plain toe oxfords still on his feet. “Sorry, professor,” he teases, toeing the shoes off and kicking them somewhere into the bedroom. 

“Claude,” she groans as he begins to quickly strip out of his clothes, tossing them after the shoes. “Your stuff goes  _ in _ the basket, not in the area around it,” she says sternly, even though she knows she’ll be saying the same thing again tomorrow. 

“They’ll get there eventually,” he shrugs, moving into the bathroom. “Don’t want the water to get cold,” he winks, gesturing for her to scoot up. 

So much for a quiet afternoon.

“You know, the purpose of the bigger bath was so that we wouldn’t have to be squished together like this,” she murmurs as he slides into the water behind her. There is plenty of room on the opposite end, but of course this fact slips his mind. He merely hums in response, tucking himself snugly against her back and setting his chin into the crook of her neck. 

“Maybe I like being pressed up against you,” he says, placing a gentle kiss to her shoulder. “And I thought the purpose of a bigger bath was for our  _ activities. _ ”

She chuckles at his lewd insinuations. “Wanna tell me why you’re home so early?” She asks as he pulls away, starting to work at the knots in her shoulders. “It’s not because you’re hiding from your assistant again, is it?” 

He digs his fingers into a particularly large knot at the base of her neck, and Byleth’s vision actually goes white for a second. It’s a trap and she knows this, but it just feels so good. “Well, not exactly,” he starts, digging his fingers a little deeper and actually making her moan. “Now, I know you don’t like it when I make a big deal out of things but…” His fingers move under her chin, tilting her head towards him so they’re eye to eye. “It’s our five-year anniversary on Saturday, so I took a few days off to celebrate with you.” Before she can get a word out, he swallows her argument with a deep kiss, effectively muffling her protests.

“Claude,” she sputters, pursing her slightly swollen lips together. “How many days did you take off?”

“Three days, starting tomorrow,” he answers quickly, leaning in for another kiss. Byleth places a soap covered hand over his mouth and pushes his face back, ignoring his confused noises. 

“You can’t take that many days off, you have the briefing for the Almyra deal to get ready for on Monday,” she reminds him, scooting to the opposite end of the tub to avoid any more distracting touches. She knew he’d been fighting tooth and nail to get this deal through, and she’s surprised that he’d take time off before such an important meeting. 

“Come on,” he urges, that sneaky smile she hated to love still playing on his lips as he leans forward in the water. Byleth feels his hands grasp her ankle, barely lifting her foot above the water, his fingers rubbing firm circles into the pads of her foot. 

And by the goddess does it feel good. 

“Think about it, By,” he murmurs slowly, seductively. She has to admit, he looks absolutely irresistible right now. The way the afternoon sun wonderfully bounced off the rivulets of water dripping down the planes of his chest painted a very pretty picture for her to look at as he massaged her tired legs. “The only reason I took this weekend off is because you have it off too.” 

He’s right, she realizes as her head lolls back against the rim of the tub. She’d planned to have their anniversary weekend off very intricately. She’d made sure there were no midterms to mark, no reports to overview, and no inquiry emails left unanswered. Her TA’s were on call to field any questions about the assignment from students. 

Of course, she’d been okay with postponing their plans. Claude had something important coming up, and she wasn’t going to force him to miss it for some fancy dinner. 

Clearly  _ he _ hadn’t been okay with it. 

But with those skilled fingers of his working their way up her calf and soothing the muscles she’d used to walk around the lecture hall...Byleth was starting to think she might be okay with it too. She allows her eyes to slip closed as he continues describing their weekend. “It’ll be just you and me all weekend,” he continues in the low voice that makes the blush creep up her neck. “We’ll cuddle in bed all morning, then I’ll make you a special brunch.” She cracks one eye open at that and eyes him warily. “Okay, I’ll order you a special brunch,” he corrects, and with a satisfied smirk, she shuts her eye again. “Then I’ll take you to the beach, we’ll do some fishing…” 

“Well, as long as you’re confident in your proposa _ —ah _ …” she gasps, shuddering as his fingers travel up past her knee. “Claude, what are you—” 

“Shh,” he chuckles, pressing a finger over her lips. “Just giving you a little preview of what you’re in for this weekend,” he assures her with an insatiable wink. “Let me help you relax, dearest.” 

Just before his fingers find their target, his phone rings from the pile of clothes he’d left on the floor. 

“Go answer it,” she groans, but his fingers don’t move, seemingly stuck to the inside of her thigh. “Claude, it could be the office looking for you. It could be important.” 

“Or it could be Hilda calling to tell me that the croissant Caspar brought her this morning wasn’t flaky enough and that absolutely must mean that he plans on breaking up with her,” Claude points out. 

Even though Byleth knows that’s definitely a possibility, she rolls her eyes anyways, nodding her head towards the phone. “All the more reason to answer. If you don’t, she’ll keep calling you.” It’s happened before. 

“Alright, alright,” he eventually agrees, and Byleth admires the pleasant curve of his rear as he exits the tub, hiding her smile behind a sip of wine. 

“Oh, would you look at that,” he says when he picks up the phone, turning it towards her. A picture of Hilda flashes across the screen. “Hey, Hil,” he answers, putting the phone on speaker and setting it onto the bathroom counter. “What’s up?”

_ “Took you long enough to answer. Just wanted to let you know that Friendsgiving will be at Lysithea and Cyril’s on Saturday.” _

Claude and Byleth exchange a frown. “Wait, that’s this Saturday?” 

Thanksgiving was an elusive holiday in their household. With no set date, they both saw little reason to remember it. Hilda, who was big on holidays, was there to do it for them anyways.

_ “Yeah, why?” _

“Oh, uh…” His gaze flicks between Byleth and the phone in a silent plea for help. Byleth simply sinks lower into the tub and takes a big gulp of wine. “You actually called at a bad time. Byleth is naked, I’m horribly distracted. I can’t even focus on what you’re saying. Goodbye.”

_ “First of all, ew. Second of all, can you at least tell me if—” _

Claude hangs up before she can finish. “Phew. Saved that one,” he says, wiping some pretend sweat from his brow. 

“There goes our romantic weekend,” she sighs as he returns to the tub. Every year, Thanksgiving, or, ‘Friendsgiving’ with their friends was a whole weekend of get-togethers. They didn’t just do Thanksgiving dinner. There was always a leftovers brunch the next day, followed by drinks— lots of them. 

“Oh, no, no, no. I am not giving up my romantic weekend with you to watch Hilda get drunk on vodka crans and listen to Lorenz sing Tiny Dancer."

“We have to go. After Hilda’s turkey explosion last year, you know we’ll be stuck bringing the backup turkey again. Plus, it’s Lysithea’s first time hosting, you know how much she loves bossing everyone around.” Every year they divide up cooking responsibilities, and almost every year, the responsibility of the turkey ends up thrust onto her. 

A slow smile spreads across his face, and Byleth fears the meaning of its appearance. “What if we’re not here though? What if we’re in...Almyra?”

Byleth stares at her boyfriend quizzically. “Are we going to visit your parents?”

“Yeah…” he grins, “something like that.” His hands grasp her waist and pull her into his lap, where his fingers continue their slow trail up the inside of her thigh. “Now, where were we?”


	2. Turkey Troubles

_“Happy Thanksgiving you guys!”_ Claude and Byleth greet through the screen of Hilda’s phone. 

“Awe, happy Thanksgiving to you guys too!” Hilda gushes, waving at the couple. “We miss you!” She blows them a kiss, which Claude catches.

_“We miss you too! We’re so sorry we aren’t there to celebrate with you guys,”_ Claude apologizes, but for some reason, Hilda doesn’t think he sounds sorry. _“How are things going over there?”_

Hilda shakes the thought from her head. It’s probably the cocktails muddling her brain. It had been one of Claude’s concoctions after all. “Great! How’s Almyra?” She answers a little too loudly, hoping it drowns out the clashing of pots and pans and Lysithea’s muffled yelling. 

Byleth seems to jolt forwards, and Hilda catches the side eye she sends Claude. _“It’s hot,”_ is all she says. A series of loud bangs make Hilda jump, and she decides it’s time to wrap up before Claude has a chance to make fun of anyone. 

“Well, I better go check on that. Call me as soon as you get back!” She hits end before they can say goodbye and shoves her phone back into her pocket, sauntering out of the bedroom.

Lysithea and Cyril’s cozy apartment is already filled to the brim with their Friendsgiving guests. In the living room, Marianne is snuggling with Dimitri on the loveseat, Lorenz is straightening picture frames and dusting shelves. Caspar, Ignatz, and Annette are sitting cross-legged at the coffee table playing a board game. 

Another solid _thwack_ draws Hilda into the kitchen. Sylvain and Ingrid are seated on the barstools, chatting with Felix, who leans against the counter, watching their hosts hunch over the open oven. 

“What are you turkeys gobbling about in here?” She asks, but stops dead in her tracks when she sets her eyes on the scene. “Uh, what is going on here?” She almost doesn’t want to ask, for fear of being the next target of Lysithea’s infamous party-induced rage. 

“The stupid turkey is too big for the stupid oven so we’re trying to make it fit.” Lysithea explains exasperatedly. Cyril is holding a baseball bat, and Lysithea is holding a frying pan. Both continue whacking at the unmoving turkey with their makeshift cooking utensils. 

“Oh, goddess, I can’t get it in,” Lysithea groans in frustration. 

“We’ve all been there am I right, Ing?” Sylvain laughs from the counter, raising his beer. Ingrid jabs her elbow into his side as Lysithea glares at him before resuming her whacking. 

Felix appears out of nowhere, places a foot on the base of the pan, and with a simple extension of the knee is able to force the turkey into the oven. It barely fits, but he’s able to kick the door shut with ease. Without a word, he opens the fridge and grabs a beer, undoubtedly stalking off to bother Annette. 

That sure was interesting. 

The front door swings open then. “Hello, hello,” Dorothea sing-songs as she walks in with Ferdinand in tow, holding two bottles of wine. “Are we the last ones again?”

Lorenz comes to take their coats, but not without adding his two cents. “Yes,” he says, tapping the face of his watch. “Proper dinner etiquette suggests that if you are not five minutes early, you’re already late. It seems that you are twenty-minutes late.” Ferdinand sputters out an apology, but Dorothea scowls at him. “You are forgiven, I suppose,” Lorenz sighs. 

Hilda takes the opportunity to jump in and take the bottles of wine out of Dorothea’s hands. “Nevermind him. Did you bring the pie, like we discussed?” 

The couple exchanges a look. “Dorothea, you said we were only in charge of wine.” 

“Ah, it’s possible I may have tuned out after I heard ‘wine…’”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Hilda dimisses, hoping the tinkering with the oven has distracted Lysithea enough from this conversation. The poor girl couldn’t handle a second meltdown of the night. “There’s probably some apples laying around the kitchen, just make a pie.” Hilda spins on her heel and pops the bottle of wine open. Solving issues all day sure is tiring. “Ferdie, can you go grab a pie crust from the store across the street?” He nods and heads out again.

Back in the kitchen, Hilda busies herself with filling another glass of wine. “Lysithea, babe, can I use some apples to make a pie?” Dorothea asks sweetly. 

“Yeah, yeah. Baking stuff is in the cabinet by the fridge. Just don’t make a mess,” Lysithea replies uninterestedly, waving a hand dismissively and not even bothering to turn around. 

Dorothea grabs the apples from the bowl and rolls them across the counter to Hilda, who barely manages to stop them before they fall onto the floor. “There you go,” she smiles. “I guess chopping them up would be a good start.” 

Hilda looks between her and the apples. “And you expect me to do that? I just got a manicure.”

Dorothea holds her hands up, flashing her freshly painted maroon acrylics. “Mani pedi, I win. I’m not doing this either.” 

“Even so, do you think these delicate hands are any good for cutting stuff up?” Hilda takes a step back.

“You make your own jewelry, you have the steadiest hands out of all of us,” Dorothea argues, also backing away from the fruit.

“Yeah, but I’ve been drinking,” Hilda reminds her, holding up her already empty wine glass. “Might slice my whole hand off.”

“You think my hands would be any steadier? My hand is just so sore from carrying this thing around all day,” Dorothea sighs dramatically, holding her left hand up by the wrist so they can all get a look at the shiny 3.5 carat princess cut engagement ring on her finger. 

Hilda was _not_ jealous.

“For the love of all things sweet and pure,” Lysithea groans loudly, pounding a fist onto the counter. “It’s like listening to lazy and lazier. Can one of you just slice the _damn_ apples?” 

Hilda hides her laugh behind a cough, and Dorothea chokes down her own. There’s nothing better than watching Lysithea freak out over a holiday. 

“Dibs out!” Dorothea yells, touching a finger to her nose. “Get dicing, Goneril,” she grins, skipping out of the kitchen. Hilda reluctantly picks up the knife, prodding at the apples. If there’s one thing she’s good at in the kitchen, it’s getting others to do all the work for her. 

“Felix,” she says sweetly when the man comes back into the kitchen to get yet another beer. Hr probably needs it to get through whatever speech Sylvain is droning on about. “Can you cut these for me?” 

“No,” he scoffs, already beginning to walk away.

“Hmph,” she huffs. “Well, I didn’t think you could do it anyway.” 

Hilda doesn’t have to look up to know that he’s now standing over her, and that the vein on his forehead that Sylvain likes to make fun of is probably protruding. “Couldn’t do what?” 

“Dice all three of these apples in less than a minute,” she replies with a shrug. “But if you can’t, I guess I’ll just ask Sylvain…” 

“I can do that,” Felix announces, snatching the knife from her hands. “Easy.” 

44 seconds later, Hilda has three diced apples sitting in front of her, and a satisfied Felix walks out with a beer and a triumphant grin. 

She decides the one thing she can do is at least transfer the chopped apples into a bowl to be mixed with the other ingredients. Hilda scoops up the unevenly diced cubes of fruit with her hands, and is depositing them into a mixing bowl when Lorenz walks in. 

“Hilda,” he interrupts abruptly. “What are— Did you—”

“Goddess, spit it out, Lorenz. 

He clears his throat and tries again, eyes glued to her task. “Did you wash your hands?” 

“I’ll wash them after,” she shrugs, not stopping.

“No, no,” he says, his voice a pitch higher than usual as he grabs the bowl. “You see, now this entire bowl of apples is compromised due to your filthy hands.” 

“Relax. We can just wash the apples,” she points out, eyeing the feather duster sitting in his pocket like a gun in a holster. “What’s with you being so overly sanitary all the time?” 

“I am not _overly_ sanitary. It’s simply basic hygiene.” 

“You wash your hands like thirty times a day,” Dorothea quips from the living room.

Lorenz releases a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “If I need to, I can get my hands dirty.” 

Nobody believes that. Even the currently stressed out Lysithea manages a laugh. 

Hilda picks up a piece of apple, holding it up and rolling it around between her thumb and index finger. “Would you eat this so-called filthy apple?” 

Lorenz purses his lips together tightly. “Yeah,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal but Hilda can hear the way his voice trembles when she takes a few steps toward him. “No big deal.” 

“Open your mouth then.” He tries to stand his ground, but when he opens his mouth to retort, she takes the opportunity to lunge forward, but he ducks. With a messy flail of his arms he wiggles away from her and towards the sink. 

“No!” He shouts, glaring across the kitchen at her. “No, you beautiful savage.” 

Hilda pops the apple into her mouth and skips out of the kitchen. Oh, how she loves to push his buttons.

She wanders back into the living room, chatting for a few minutes with Dorothea about her upcoming wedding plans. Bridesmaid dresses, floral arrangements, caterers. They’re just coming up on the topic of flower girls when Lysithea’s panic stricken face stumbles in frantically. 

“There’s been a slight issue,” she says, voice trembling with a terrifying mix of fear and anger. “You know that new garbage disposal I was talking about? Well, turns out when you throw five pounds worth of potato peels down it, a pipe might burst!” 

“What?” Annette gasps, and everyone immediately moves towards the kitchen, only to take a few steps back as they see Cyril hunched over the flooding sink. 

“Thanksgiving is ruined,” Lysithea groans, looking like she’s on the verge of tears. “It’s my first time hosting, and I already messed it up,” she squeaks between her sharp intakes of breath.

“Calm down, Lysithea. Only dogs can hear you now,” Felix scoffs, and Ingrid smacks his arm.

“It’s not ruined,” Marianne tries, placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “We can still-” 

“The kitchen is _flooding,_ Marianne! We aren’t even done cooking!” 

“Then we move Friendsgiving,” Hilda suggests. “We just need to find a new place to cook our bird and mash our potatoes. It shouldn’t be hard, we have lots of options here,” she gestures around the room. There are plenty of places they could relocate to. “Who wants to volunteer?”

Judging from the deafening silence, no one. 

Wonderful. 

Must she do everything?

Her mind instantly begins flipping through a mental catalogue of their friend’s homes. Lorenz’s house is certainly large enough, but did they really want to spend the whole evening eating over the ‘safe zone’ of the sink? Annette’s apartment was cute. Nice pastels, very easy on the eyes and aesthetically pleasing for quality Instagram posts. Felix’s place was nice, but the walls were too dark for her liking. Dorothea and Ferdinand’s place was beautiful, but the place was overrun with wedding favours to be put together. “Sylvain, Ingrid, how about your place? You’ve got a big enough place to host all of us, and any pictures I post will look...good enough on my feed.”

“No can do,” Ingrid sighs, “we’re getting our kitchen’s backsplash retiled.” 

“Ohhh, what pattern?” 

Ingrid’s eyes light up. “Just the basic brick joint. We were going to go for the honeycomb, but there’s just something so beautiful about such a classic pattern when you choose the right colour.” 

“I totally agree. What colour did you guys end up going with?”

“The white and grey marble. It actually goes really nice with our count-”

“Hello?” Lysithea yells impatiently, stamping her foot. “I’m so glad you have pretty marble backsplash in your kitchen but I have a kitchen that splashes and a turkey that is still so raw, that it might as well still be gobbling. I also have fifteen people that I need to feed it to tonight!” Everyone physically flinches at her tone, but ultimately keep their mouths shut to avoid attracting her anger. “So can someone _please_ take one for the team and _save our sorry Thanksgiving?_ ”

Sylvain points at Felix. Felix points at Annette. Annette points at Hilda. Hilda points at Dorothea. Dorothea points at Lorenz. There’s still no decisive location for their Friendsgiving relocation, and Lysithea is getting redder by the second. One of them may actually die tonight.

Then, the goddess grants Hilda a revelation. One that will save their souls from the little white-haired gremlin’s wrath. “Oh my gosh! Speaking of renovations, Byleth and Claude just finished remodeling their house! Their kitchen is totally gorgeous and it’ll definitely be big enough to host all of us.”

Dorothea’s brows furrow as she frowns. “Yeah, but they aren’t exactly here to offer up their place to us.”

“Claude gave me the code to their door for emergencies!” Hilda grins, searching through her notes. “Yes! It’s right here!”

“Hilda...are you certain this is a good idea? It seems rather improper,” Lorenz sighs, rubbing his temples. 

She’s already grabbing her purse, rummaging through for her car keys. “Oh, come on you guys. We’ll just finish cooking our dinner and then we can go to my place to eat.”

They’re still bickering about it when Lysithea speeds by them, glaring over the large, half cooked turkey. “Claude gave Hilda the key for _emergencies_ ,” she deadpans. With what looks like a great amount of effort, she hoists the turkey up. “This is an emergency. Grab a dish and let’s go.” She doesn’t wait for their responses, leaving no room for arguments before she’s out the door. 

It seems to do the trick. Within three minutes, Hilda is leading everyone out, half-finished entreés and sides piled into their arms. 

It was time to save Friendsgiving.

  
  


__________

  
  


“We totally sold that,” Claude says, tossing his phone onto the couch as soon as Hilda hangs up. “They totally thought we were in Almyra.” 

Byleth drops herself down onto their couch, sighing as Claude does his little victory dance. “And you don’t at all feel guilty about lying to their faces?”

“Not one bit,” he laughs, pouring them two new glasses of wine. He hands her one, lighting up the fireplace and joining her on the couch. Byleth immediately tucks herself into his side, and his arm instantly wraps around her shoulders. “Because now I get a romantic weekend alone with you. Where you’re not all sweaty and gross and tired from saving Hilda’s disaster attempts at cooking up something she saw on the Food Network.” 

_Gross?_ She pats his chest with her free hand a little harder than necessary. “Choose your words carefully, dear,” she reminds him, then using him to push herself up and off the couch. “Anyways, I think I’m going to head upstairs. I’m feeling a little warm, so I think I might slip into something a little more comfortable.” 

“I can just turn off the fireplace if you’re feeling-” he clamps his mouth shut when her bra lands in his lap, staring at it for a second before his brain finally makes the connection. “Oh, happy anniversary to us,” he grins, licking his lips like a man starved. They’re both giggling as he chases her up the stairs. 

_“Isn’t this breaking and entering?”_

They both freeze when they hear the sound of Ingrid’s voice outside their front door, horrified looks on their faces. 

_“It’s not breaking and entering if we have the code to their door.”_

Claude’s eyes widen, meeting Byleth’s panicked ones. “Did I just hear Hilda? What are they doing here?” 

The sound of the lock clicking open snaps them out of their state of shock, and Byleth grabs Claude’s wrist, dragging him up the stairs just as they hear the sound of their door being pushed open. 

“This is why we don’t lie!” She hisses, trying her best not to slam the door to their bedroom. "Is it too soon to say 'I told you so?'"


	3. Almyran Turkey

“If we crank the heat up to 550 degrees we might be able to get this turkey done on time! Cyril, get the bird in the oven then get the gravy back on the stove!” Lysithea commands, and Cyril all but yanks the top oven open (why the heck does Claude have two ovens?) and shoves Lysithea’s turkey inside, cranking the heat up to 550 and hitting start.

“You don’t think that’ll dry the turkey out?” Cyril asks, setting a bowl of half mashed potatoes down on the counter. 

Lysithea slams an open palm down onto the counter, focused eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Question me one more time and I swear I’ll eviscerate you with this whisk,” she threatens, wielding the cooking utensil like a weapon. It seems that no one is safe this holiday. 

As soon as she turns back around, Hilda takes the opportunity to swipe a bottle of wine off the counter and backs out of the kitchen as quietly as possible. She isn’t going to hang around in a place where knives are within their host’s reach.

She wanders into the living room, stopping short when she sees that no one is sitting. They’re all standing around and staring at the couch. “Uh, what are you guys doing?” 

Annette silently points at one of the cushions, and Hilda zeroes in on the subject of their awkward stares.

It’s a bra. 

Oh.

_Oh._

“Oh, grow up,” she chuckles, picking the underment up by it’s black strap and dangling it in front of her. “Like you guys haven’t gotten frisky on the couch before. They probably got into it ten minutes before they left for the airport.”

Marianne chokes, and Dimitri turns bright red — Hilda will have to come back to that — while the rest of their friends fight over the two armchairs. 

Hilda plops down onto the couch. It’s certainly large enough to fit at least three more people. “Why are you guys fighting? There’s plenty of room here,” she says, patting the cushion beside her.

They stare at her like she’s crazy. “They probably _did it_ on that couch,” Lorenz states with clear disdain. “The thought of sitting somewhere that someone’s bare backside has touched doesn’t disturb you?”

“No,” she replies coolly, truly unfazed as she reaches for the remote and flicks the tv on. “Why are you guys getting weird about it now, though? You sit on my couch all the time.”

__________

“Hilda, are you sure we should go in there?” Marianne asks as they climb the stairs to the second floor. 

“I just want to see what their room looks like! Claude didn’t get a chance to show me before they left,” she explains. Her reason for escaping to the upstairs had also been heavily influenced by Lysithea’s mini meltdown after Cyril had flipped her “impossible to mess up” strawberry jello mold, and it sloshed out in a liquified mess. “Aren’t you curious to see their work? They did most of it themselves, you know.” 

“I guess I’m a little curious…” Marianne admits, and it’s all the resolve that Hilda needs to push the door to the master bedroom open and step inside. She thinks she catches movement in the corner of her eye, but attributes it to the copious amount of wine she’d already indulged in. 

“This is beautiful,” Marianne gasps, and Hilda wholeheartedly agrees. From the beautiful natural wood finish of their bed frame, dressers, and nightstands, to the ivory coloured duvets and throw pillows, to the dark grey accent wall, the room is positively gorgeous. A perfect combination of Byleth’s modern, minimalistic style with hints of Claude’s rustic preferences. 

“I might ask them to do my apartment,” Hilda murmurs, running a hand over the smooth surface of a nearby dresser. Her hand slips, and she _accidentally_ grasps the handle and opens the top drawer. Oops. 

“Hilda!” Marianne scolds as her hands accidentally slips in and she takes a peek inside. 

“I’m just...finding a spot to put this back,” she says, pulling the surprisingly fashionable lace bra out of her jacket pocket. “I’m doing them a favour and cleaning up after them.” She inspects the drawer’s contents as Marianne gushes over a framed photo atop the nightstand. 

Clearly Byleth had taken it upon herself to oversee the organizational quality of their shared living space. Hilda had been Claude’s roommate for years, she knew the man had no sense of cleanliness and order. At first, she’d pitied Byleth, but who else could convince Claude to sort his socks into an organizer? Some things were simply meant to be. 

Something catches her eye in the far right corner of the drawer, and Hilda reaches out to touch it. A small, velvet box. She immediately draws her hand back. 

Interesting.

__________

  
  


“Privacy really is dead,” Byleth sighs as she and Claude step out of their bathroom. Her eyes sweep the room, her shoulders relaxing when she confirms that Hilda hadn’t misplaced their things. 

“They moved the dinner here,” Claude whispers, ear pressed to their bedroom door.

“Oh, thank you for cracking that code,” Byleth mutters quietly as she paces back and forth. “What do we do now, Claude?”

“We can just lock the door and continue our night here,” he suggests with a hopeful gleam in his eye. He peels himself away from the door, moving towards her and wrapping his arms around her waist. “It won’t be bad. We just have to be a little quiet—” He leans forward and ends up kissing her palm, Byleth pushing his face away and twisting out of his hold.

“The moment has passed, it’s not happening,” she scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest as he pouts. “This is ridiculous, we should just go downstairs and tell them that we’re here.”

Claude gapes at her, gesturing desperately between her and the door. “Are you kidding me? We just facetimed them from ‘Almyra!’ We lied to their faces!”

“You said you didn’t care!”

“Well that was before I knew we were going to get caught! Before they decided to break into our house and start drinking our wine!”

If Byleth was annoyed before, she was definitely mad now. “They’re drinking our wine?”

“ _Hilda_ is down there. Pretty sure I heard her pop the cork on our ‘74 two minutes after they got in.” 

“She probably isn’t even using a glass,” Byleth grumbles. Something goes off in her mind as she processes the fact that their friends are in their house _without_ her supervision. “Caspar is probably down there not using a coaster and leaving rings on my coffee table. I bet Felix didn’t even take his shoes off. Lysithea is in my kitchen moving my stuff around. She isn’t tall enough to put things back in the right place! What if Hilda is drinking in our living room? We have a white couch!” Byleth gasps suddenly, clutching her chest. “Did you leave my bra down there?”

Yes, he did, but Claude grasps her arms, shaking her lightly. “Hey, you need to focus so we can get out of here. If we play this right, we can go downstairs right now and you can yell at all of them.”

“How?” She questions exasperatedly. “We left our keys in the bowl, and my purse is still on the hook.”

“So?”

“My wallet is in there, who travels without ID?” She knows all too well that a drunk Hilda is a nosy one. She’s bound to go snooping through something in their house.

Realization washes over his features, and his expression drops. “My wallet is on the counter,” he sighs, and Byleth releases a discontented sound. “Maybe you’re right. We should just go down there and face the music.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, placing a hand on the door knob. 

“ _Everyone out in the backyard for pictures,”_ they hear Hilda announce loudly, followed by the sound of their friends shuffling outside.

Claude immediately pushes past her, pulling the door open and stepping out. “I knew in my heart you couldn’t be right,” he teases, and Byleth slaps the back of his head before shoving him forwards.

“Just go get our stuff before they come back in!” 

Byleth paces until Claude runs back in, her purse slung over his shoulder, his keys and wallet in his hand. “Here’s what we do,” he starts, dropping their things onto the bed and moving towards their closet. “We’re getting out of here.”

“How?” She questions incredulously, staring wide eyed when he comes out with two suitcases. “Where would we go?”

Claude thrusts her purse into her hands. “When they come back in, we go down the back stairs and into the backyard. Then we run around the house to the front door and pretend we cut our trip short because we missed everyone!”

Byleth isn’t sure if it’s the adrenaline or the anxiety that’s muddling her mind and leading her to believe that this is a good idea. “Okay, I’ll go grab our coats, and you take the suitcases, let’s go! Felix could be tracking mud through our living room right this moment!” 

They wait anxiously at the door until they hear their friends clamber back into their house, then speed out the balcony and down the stairs, and into the backyard, ducking by the windows to avoid being seen. As soon as they make it around the house and are standing at their front door, Claude stops her to go over their cover. “Okay, so we tell them we got an early flightout, and came home to,” he stops, gasping lightly. 

“What? What?” Byleth whispers harshly, wondering what possibly could be wrong now. 

“My little turkey.”

“Claude, you know I hate when you call me that—”

“No! I was making us our own turkey for Thanksgiving but I left it in the oven! I’m surprised they didn’t see it yet.”

Byleth inwardly groans. “Okay, okay, it’s probably still there, so we just have to get rid of it. You call them all into the living room and tell them...something, and I’ll go throw the turkey out. Easy.”

Once again, Byleth isn’t in the right mindset to come up with a better plan, so she allows herself a single deep breath as Claude sends her a nod, and she throws the front door open. 

“Hi everyone,” she exclaims loudly, drawing her friends into the foyer. “We came home early because we missed you!” She knows she’s a tad too enthusiastic, judging by the way Claude winces beside her. 

“You’re back!” Hilda cheers, but Byleth can see her hiding a familiar bottle of wine behind her back. “How great!” 

Claude hands Byleth the suitcases, grabbing Hilda’s shoulder and pulling her into the living room. “Yeah, yeah, it’s great we’re back, but I have some special news to share with you all. Lysithea! Cyril! Get over here!” 

Lysithea comes out of the kitchen, still whisking away at whatever is in her bowl. Cyril trails behind her, peeling an apple. “Go!” Byleth nearly shouts, shooing them both out of her kitchen. “I need to take our suitcases to the laundry room because Alymra was hot and...sweaty.”

It takes all her willpower to walk by the horrorshow that was her kitchen. Drawers are open, cabinets left ajar, spills not wiped up. 

She makes it to the ovens, grabbing two nearby towels and opening up the top oven. “A _small_ turkey, huh Claude?” she mutters, heaving the twelve pound turkey out of the oven, her mind suddenly blanking. _Where the hell was she going to put a twelve pound turkey?_

_“I have to go congratulate her!”_ She hears Hilda squeal. 

Byleth curses, pushing aside some empty cans and setting the turkey down onto the counter. She’s gone on autopilot at this point, and finds herself opening up one of their empty suitcases and throwing the turkey inside. She gets it zipped up just in time for Hilda to come barreling inside.

“I can’t believe you’re having a baby!” 

Her breath catches in her throat. What?

Hilda wraps her arms around her, and Byleth peeks over her head to see their friends crowded around Claude, patting him on the back as he shoots her a thumbs up. 

_What?_

__________

  
  
  


“Yeah, yeah, Claude got Byleth knocked up and that’s awesome— if not wildly irresponsible —but I have a turkey to tend to!” 

Lysithea all but runs back into the kitchen, and Byleth barely manages to untangle herself from Hilda’s limbs and escape into the foyer, dragging her suitcases behind her. 

Hilda feels like she’s floating in a dream. She was about to become an aunt, oh, the thought made her heart soar. 

Lysithea’s high pitched scream breaks her out of her dream like haze, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise, and her blood curl. “No!” 

“What’s wrong?” Cyril asks, rubbing his ear. 

Lysithea slowly turns around, staring down at her bird in horror. “Turning up the heat dried up and shrunk our turkey!” Huh. Hilda has no idea such a thing was possible. “It’s tiny! How am I supposed to feed fifteen people with this...this chicken?!”

Hilda does her best to stifle her laughter as Lysithea begins to lose her sanity. “Let’s put it on a smaller platter to make it look normal sized,” he suggests, rummaging through the cabinets for tableware.

“Maybe you can try a coaster,” Hilda laughs, even as she feels Lysithea’s eyes burn holes into her forehead. 

“Load them up on some freshly baked bread, Cyril,” Lysithea commands, doing her best to dice up their mini turkey. 

Cyril holds up a round bun of bread, then taps it against the counter. “The bread was overcooked, remember? You said we might well be serving turtle shells?”

His girlfriend pinches the bridge of her nose, stopping to think. “Okay, here,” she picks up a loaf of packaged white bread and throws it at him. “They’re drunk enough, they won’t know the difference,” she then yanks the fridge open. “I’ll add some sandwich meat, they won’t even know the difference there either.”

Hilda takes another swig from her bottle of wine. She’s going to need it.

  
  


__________

  
  


Byleth grabs his arm, pulling him aside. “You told them I was pregnant?” 

“I panicked!” He replies, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “They were all waiting, and Lysithea was about to go check on the food and well...” He had to admit, it wasn’t his best lie. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No!” She exclaims, whacking his arm. “Not for a while now!”

“Just thought I’d check,” he assures her. 

“I need a drink,” Byleth groans, rolling her eyes. “I’m also starving. Do you think they’re almost done in there?”

“Turkey is done!” Cyril announces, coming up to them with a plate of what looks like shredded turkey and assorted lunch meats. Byleth and Claude blink down at the small plate in shock. Dimitri could eat that much turkey on his own. 

The rest of their friends wander in at the mention of food, stopping short when they see their meal. “What happened to your turkey?” Sylvain snorts. 

Lysithea enters the room to defend her honour, a basket of sliced bread in her hands. “You were supposed to bring out the bread first!” She hisses, looking around at their friends. “I tried to do the perfect thanksgiving, but _someone,”_ she glares at Lorenz, “thought that putting five pounds worth of potato peels down my garbage disposal was a good idea.”

“You told me to do it!” He argues, lifting an offended hand to his chest.

“Not all at once!”

“Well it isn’t at all my fault that you shrunk your turkey! Things usually expand in heat, yet you somehow still managed to mess it up!”

“If you hadn’t caused my water pipe to burst and flooded my kitchen—”

“Does it really matter?” Claude surmises, stepping between his two friends.

“Yes!” They both yell in his ears. He winces and steps back behind Byleth.

“Can we just stop arguing and just enjoy a nice Thanksgiving together?” Claude whines, “Byleth and I came all the way back from Almyra to—”

“That’s right!” Hilda interrupts, bounding up to them. “You did just come back from vacation! That means presents! Let me take that for you, By,” she offers, grabbing at the handle of her suitcase.

“No,” Byleth says, her voice an octave too high as she releases his arm and puts both on her suitcase. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“You’re pregnant,” Felix reminds her, and Claude pretends not to notice Byleth’s pointed glare. “You shouldn’t be carrying heavy things.”

“It’s fine, really,” she insists desperately, but Hilda manages to wrench it out of her grip. The woman was oddly strong when it came to free stuff. “Hilda, wait—”

It’s too late, Hilda is already tearing through the zipper, and Claude is bracing himself for the moment they all see that it’s empty and their lie is truly exposed. 

The suitcase isn’t empty.

There’s a _turkey_ inside.

“Why do you have a turkey?” Hilda questions, leaning back to get a better look. 

“It’s...uh...a special turkey from Almyra,” Claude tries, exchanging a nervous glance with Byleth. “It’s seasoned with traditional Almyran spices.”

“How did you get a whole turkey through customs?” Ingrid pipes up, and Claude feels his palms begin to sweat. 

“It’s customs,” Byleth says beside him, “they respect the...customs.” Not her best, but Claude didn’t exactly know what was going on either.

“Hey, wait,” Lysithea cuts in, inspecting the suitcase turkey. “This is _my_ turkey. How the heck did it get into your suitcase?”

“If that’s your turkey, where’d the small one come from?” Sylvain asks, and all eyes turn to Byleth and Claude. 

_Shit._

“Wait a minute, how did you guys even know to come back here? If you were coming back for Thanksgiving, wouldn’t you have gone straight to Lysithea and Cyril’s?” Dorothea adds, hand on her hip. “By the way, what’s with that talking coffee grinder in your living room?” 

Claude opens his mouth to spin a half-hearted lie, and tell Dorothea about their voice-controlled home system, but Byleth slaps a hand over his mouth. “We lied about Almyra,” she admits, “it’s our anniversary this weekend, and we just wanted to spend it together. But then you all came here, and Claude told me to get his turkey out of the oven and I guess I grabbed the wrong one.”

They all stare at them in shock as Byleth slowly removes her hand from his mouth. “We just wanted a little break from the Thanksgiving stress. The yelling and the craziness—”

“What yelling?” Lysithea shouts, her voice lowering when she realizes. “You know what, it doesn't even matter! All I wanted was a nice holiday with my friends. But this is my first time hosting and all I have to show for it is a suitcase turkey, sliced bread, what can only be described as jello soup, and a knocked up professor!”

“About that, uh, I’m not pregnant,” Byleth mumbles, and Lysithea throws her hands up. “Claude needed to distract you all while I got rid of his turkey.”

She only sighs, seemingly defeated. “Thanksgiving is over, let’s just all go home you guys.”

“No,” Claude says, grabbing her wrist before she can turn away. “I know I’m the last person who should be saying this right now but we can’t just not have Thanksgiving together. This holiday is about being thankful for all that you have, and I for one, am grateful for all of you. You’re my big, crazy family, and we should celebrate that now that we’re all together.”

“Claude’s right,” Hilda agrees, taking the bread from Lysithea’s arms and placing it on a nearby side table. “Thank you for all you’ve sacrificed tonight. We’re very thankful for your efforts,” she says, pulling her into a hug. “Get in here, you guys!” 

Everyone squeezes in for a group hug, though some grumble and complain, Claude wouldn’t have it any other way.

The front door opens and Lorenz comes in — Claude hasn’t even realized he’d left — holding a large lump of tinfoil in his arms. “I had a backup turkey in my car.”

  
  


__________

  
  


Claude watches from across the kitchen as Byleth reshuffles the contents of their cabinets. She’d been so focused on the task that she hadn’t noticed Hilda and Claude come in.

“Were you going to do it this weekend?” Hilda asks quietly, eyes flicking to where his girlfriend stands on her tiptoes.

“Do what?” He asks, feigning innocence and hoping she drops it.

“You know,” she says, pointing to her left ring finger. 

Claude immediately turns her around, making sure their backs are to Byleth. “I knew you saw it! You can’t tell anyone!”

“You could have told me, you know. I wouldn’t have suggested coming here if I had known.”

“But would you have been able to keep it a secret?” He deadpans. 

“Of course!” A lie, he knows this.

“Whatever you say,” he sighs, turning back to Byleth. He knows Hilda would have let it slip, probably by accident. Telling Hilda meant he wouldn’t get to see the surprised look on her face when he popped the question. He wouldn’t see the sparkle in her eye when he said he loved her, and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. 

Judging from today, he would just have to try a bit harder, and wait a bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading my extremely self-indulgent Claudeleth holiday one shot!! Happy early Thanksgiving!


End file.
